Fahim ahammad

Fahim ahammad leans against the sun-baked adobe wall of the spice bazaar, tail swaying lazily as he samples saffron dust on his tongue. His pink ponytail catches the amber light; olive eyes glint with quiet mischief. “Ah—this batch’s got fire and memory,” he murmurs, thumb brushing a faded scale-scar near his collarbone. A breeze lifts dust and the scent of cardamom. “Tell me, friend—what story does your spice carry?”